Editing The Self
Dear friend,
I thought I heard an owl hooting just this moment, but it could have been a train whistle. It’s a quiet moment here at home with the stillness of the plants and the ticking of the clock.
The light is waking us just before six these mornings, and it feels nice to have time for meditation and reflection before the roofers, Florian and Matt, turn up with their radio and the dust and their work.
It’s been really lovely to meet them. I bought a box of chocolate mint chip ice-cream cones from the supermarket, and we had them in the heat at the end of the day. It felt like being kids. The guys were so happy about it.
Chiara and I were talking about how both of our families look after visitors. You’re offered food and coffee or tea or a meal and a place to relax. It’s a poor culture if we lose sight of our shared humanity.
A lot of the time you cross paths with people who have somewhere else to be. But when someone’s working on your place, you can get to know them a bit.
I suspect a part of this hospitality in me is ego-driven.
Do I have an image of myself that says I’ve to be a good host? The test would be: how offended does this image become when a guest does not know or follow my ego’s silent rules of engagement?
How easy it is to be seduced into fabricating offence.
The false self’s game is often subtle and deep.
Its purpose is to blind us to the unity just beneath the surface of things.
What does that mean, exactly?
There’s an old Sufi story about a dog that somehow wanders into a mirrored palace. The palace was built by a Sultan, and every surface—including the floor—was made of mirrors of all shapes and sizes. Some huge, some tiny.
The dog, being a stray, has survived many difficult situations. It is suspicious of strangers. On entering the palace, it is overwhelmed to be thrust into the company of other dogs of all shapes and sizes. Everywhere they look, there are dogs. Dogs at every side—even above and below.
The poor creature is so spooked the hackles at the back of its neck rise—and so do the hackles of the other dogs, all staring intently at it.
Stiffening, it bares its teeth.
Now everywhere the dog looks, it sees threatening figures.
Snarling, the world snarls back.
They bark, and their own voice echoing through the empty palace booms and cracks, the air bristling with aggression. Outnumbered, the dog makes a run for it, relentlessly pursued by many enemies. Some versions of the story have the dog running from room to room, never finding the exit, dying of fear and exhaustion.
But our dog takes a breath.
Pauses for a moment and notices.
Tilts its head to one side.
Lifting one floppy ear, it wags its tail.
Not so scary, all these other dogs after all.
Eventually, with calm, the creature finds the exit and cools off at the side of a stream, unconcerned by the upside-down dog lapping the same water from which it drinks.
Now the workmen have turned up, and they have two vans today and some welders. The job on the roof is more epic than we imagined. There’s a lot of huffing and puffing and power tools that make the house groan.
A part of me today is annoyed by the interruptions—and I have things of my own I want to focus on.
It’s not about perfection, although often we think it is.
It’s about awareness.
Coming back to breath awareness.
Space opening up in the body.
A few conscious breaths and diving beneath the rolling, breaking surface of life, into the depths, where peace makes itself known to you, as you.
Even in a hall of mirrors.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey